When We Left Cuba(4)
“A proposal or four, perhaps.”
“Rum scions and sugar barons or wild-haired, bearded freedom fighters?”
“Let’s just say my tastes are varied. I kissed Che Guevara once.”
I can’t tell who is more surprised by the announcement. I don’t know why I said it, why I’m sharing a secret not even my family knows with a total stranger. To shock him, maybe; these Americans are so easy to scandalize. To warn him I am not some simpering debutante; I have done and seen things he cannot fathom. And also, perhaps, because there’s power in the lengths to which you will go in a misguided attempt to secure your father’s release from Guevara’s hellhole of a prison, La Caba?a. It makes for a good story even if I inwardly cringe at the young girl whose hubris made her think a kiss could save a life.
“Did you enjoy it?” Golden Boy’s expression is inscrutable, a clever and effective mask sliding into place. I can’t tell if he’s scandalized, or if he feels sorry for me; I far prefer society’s scorn to his pity.
“The kiss?”
He nods.
“I would have preferred to cut his throat.”
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch at my bloodthirsty response.
“Then why did you do it?”
I surprise myself—and perhaps him—by opting for truth rather than prevarication.
“Because I was tired of things happening to me, and I wanted to make things happen for myself. Because I was trying to save someone’s life.”
“And did you?”
The taste of defeat fills my mouth with ash.
“That time, I did.”
The wave of power brings another emotion with it, the memory of the life I couldn’t save, of a car screeching to a stop in front of the enormous gates of our home, the door opening, my twin brother’s still-warm dead body tumbling to the ground, his blood staining the steps we once played on when we were children, his head cradled in my lap while I sobbed.
“Is it as bad as everyone says?” His tone is gentled to something I can hardly bear.
“Worse.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“No, you can’t. You have no idea how fortunate you are to be born in this time, in this place. Without freedom, you have nothing.”
“And what would you tell a man with only a few minutes of freedom left?”
“To run,” I reply, my tone wry.
A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it’s obvious he isn’t buying what I’m selling, and I like him better for it, for seeing past the facade.
“To savor the last few minutes he has,” I answer instead.
I want to ask his name, but pride holds me back—pride and fear.
Such luxuries have no place in my life at the moment.
I blink, only to be greeted by an outstretched palm, waiting for mine to join it.
“Dance with me.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I cock my head to the side, studying him, pretending my heart isn’t thundering in my chest, that my hand isn’t itching to take his.
“Now why does that feel more like a challenge than an invitation?”
The music is a faint hum in the background of the evening, the notes drifting out onto the empty balcony.
“Will you dance with me, Beatriz Perez, kisser-of-revolutionaries and thief-of-hearts?”
He’s too smooth by half, and I like him far too much for it.
I shake my head, a smile playing at my lips. “I didn’t say anything about stealing hearts.”
He counters my smile with a spectacular one of his own, the full wattage hitting me. “No, I did.”
Do I really even stand a chance?
He steps forward, obliterating the space between us once more, his cologne filling my nostrils, my eyes level with the snowy white front of his shirt. His hand comes to rest on my waist, the heat from his palm warming me through the thin fabric of my dress. He takes my hand with his free one, our fingers entwined.
My heart turns over in my chest as I follow his lead. Unsurprisingly, he’s a natural, confident dancer.
We don’t speak, but then again, considering the conversation between our bodies—the rustle of fabric, brushing of limbs, fleeting touches that imprint themselves upon my skin—words seem superfluous and far less intimate.
The thing about collecting marriage proposals is that people assume you’re a flirt, and perhaps I was, once, long ago, but now it feels unnatural to play the coquette. I am somewhere between the girl I was and the woman I want to be.
The song ends, another beginning with far too much speed, the dance both stretching for eternity and ending with a blink. He releases me with a subtle heave of his shoulders, the cool air between us, my fingers missing the twine of his, the shock of his absence surprisingly sharp.
I gaze into his eyes, steeling myself against the onslaught of flirtation likely to follow, the invitation to lunch or dinner, the compliments about my dancing, the heat in his gaze. I have no use for romantic entanglements at the moment, even as I imagine I would very much like to be temporarily entangled with this man.
He smiles. “Thank you for the dance.”
I watch him walk away, secure in the knowledge that he will turn around and look back at me.
He doesn’t.
Surprise fills me as he disappears back into the ballroom, into the world where he clearly belongs. Minutes pass before I’m ready to return to the ballroom, to the glittering chandeliers, the harsh glint of the other guests.